The Darkspawn's Sword
by LightYagamiisKira
Summary: Fenris wins Anders' precious Renegade coat. Anders is pretty pissed about that. Warning for: Non-con, Bondage, and stuff. If you're under 18, dun read.


Warning for: Non-con, and bondage and stuff (eventually). If you're under 18, you shouldn't be reading this.

I don't own any of the characters. Although I wouldn't mind owning the hell out of Fenris.

_**The Darkspawn's Sword**_

_**I.**_

"_Know, oh Listener, that between the years when all was darkness and the darkspawn were forced into the shadow, and the year when the mighty city of Kirkwall fell, there was a passion undreamed of amidst the shining cities—Denerim, Amaranthine, Starkhaven, beauteous Val Royeaux with it symphonic Chant of Light, and aging lyrium addicted Templar Knights, ancient Minrathous, once the capital of the whole known world, and now a thing reduced to darkness and shadow, and raging midnight creatures who hear a song of hunger that never ends…"_

**T**he chamber was lit with a golden light that played between the shadows. Those who had come to The Hanged Man tavern mostly preferred the shadows. It was a place of shady dealings and drunken debauchery. It was nestled in the shadiest part of the city—a haven for those without noble powers who still desired to be powerful. One could get one's throat cut in The Hanged Man without causing much of a stir to the dark denizens who thrived within the tavern's walls. It was a dangerous place and those that thrived on danger—those that lived and breathed it on a daily basis—were in love with the place.

Right now, Fenris was watching the human mage. The elf's gaze was both hostile and predatory. Playing cards within The Hanged Man was, often, a life or death kind of sport—something that Fernis could appreciate. The tavern allowed all to fight, die, and play, within its walls, very unlike the rest of Kirkwall, which could be cruel to an elf. Elves were thieves, servants at best, to many of the inhabitants of the city. Within The Hanged Man—the elf was the best card player they'd seen in a very long time. Sensible players avoided him, Varric, the dwarf beat him, and the mage…the mage was about to lose his shirt. _Literally_.

It felt good to take from the mage. So good, in fact, that he was barely aware of the whispered litany going on behind him as someone breathed soft words about lyrium and Minrathous. Fenris' green eyes were locked on the mage's nervous gold, while the voice continued on somewhere in the background. It had a hypnotic quality, that voice. Soft, but strong, distinctly male, and ancient. The mention of Minrathous unnerved him slightly, as did any mention of the foul Tevinter that had spawned him in obedient servitude. The tattoos that covered his body throbbed slightly in smooth reaction. Mostly, the sensation was unpleasant, but, staring into the defeated gaze of the mage made the slight pain a little better…a little more…interesting.

"Your play, Mage," he reminded the other. He did not check the loathing in his voice, nor the impatience.

Golden eyes, already locked with his, hardened slightly. "My name is Anders, _Fenris_."

Fenris smirked. There was not even the slightest hint of amusement in the expression. "You're just another mage to me."

"And you could cut the tension with a knife," Varric said from the sidelines. He was already out this hand, but Fenris found his triumph over the usually victorious dwarf failed in comparison to unraveling the arrogant mage. _Anders_ who trod the hovel-lined streets of Darktown dressed like a king. His gaze left the hard golden stare long enough to trail over the inky feathers of the mage's precious coat, only to return again as the smirk deepened into something cruel and damn near ghastly.

"Play!" he demanded and slammed one lyruim-tattooed hand down on the table. The sharp metal of his taloned gauntlets cleaved the wood in several places. Mindless of the damage he'd done to the already ravaged table, he picked up his drink, and forgot about the mage in his downing of the tavern's' finest' brew. He only blanched a little as the warm alcohol slid over his tongue. He didn't give a damn about the taste, foul as it was—just the effect.

The alcohol helped him forget his years of slavery to a mage much like the one seated across from him now. It made him forget Danarius' touch. It made him forget the pain. The humiliation. Of being owned. Completely.

Having drained the contents, he placed the cup back down on the table. The voice in the background, lurking just beneath the usual tavern banter increased in its hypnotic monotone. He was still able to ignore it, something within him warning him against listening to closely. There was danger there, and while Fenris liked danger, he didn't like anything to do with Tevinter. _It is best to leave that alone_, his mind warned, _and_…fuck _with the mage instead_.

"You appear to be out of coin, Anders," Varric was saying. "I'd be more than happy to make you a loan. And, because we're friends, I might not double the interest. You should know better than to play the elf—"

"It's not over yet," the mage said, softly. He laid out seven cards. The hand was good enough to draw the breath from the small audience that had gathered to watch them play. Golden eyes, awash with a measure of smugness that Fenris thought only a mage could possess met his again. A distinctive blue light crackled at Anders fingertips, and the edges of the cards he had held, smoked.

Fenris grinned. The gleeful expression felt alien on his face, but the emotion was real, and he was helpless against the expression of joy. Anders hand was good, but his was better. He laid each card over one of the mages, coving the singed edges, beating the other card for card. He did it slow, each card making a little snapping sound like victory as it was placed.

"Maker's breath!" Anders snarled, softly.

"About that loan," Varric chuckled.

"No," Fenris said. "I don't want coin. I want that coat."

Golden eyes narrowed to slits. "What in the world would you want with my coat, Fenris? You're being extremely petty. You just want it because I-"

"…love it," Fenris finished for him.

Those around them went very quiet. There was a tension in the air, and, like Varric had said earlier, it did seem thick enough to cut with a knife. People had died for far less within The Hanged Man than the little dispute that was going on now. It was the smell of blood that stilled the breath and held the tongue of everyone within hearing distance of the card game.

"Fenris," Varric tried to intervene again. The dwarf was the voice of reason. Unfortunately, Fenris didn't want to hear reason. He was done with The Hanged Man for the evening. All he needed was the mage's coat and he could be on his way. "You owe me ten sovereigns. I'll have them now. Or I'll have that coat, which isn't worth half as much. You can borrow the money from Varric, if you choose. But that means I beat you and made you beg all in the same night. The humiliation alone should kill you. And that's one less mage befouling the world."

"Ah, but I couldn't leave you here alone, you bitter evil shell of a slave. Tell me, when your master bought you, did he even _pay_ ten sovereigns?"

"He might have…" Fenris said, standing. The look of half-amused panic on Varric's face was divinely comical. In the rest of the tavern's outer room, you could hear a coin drop. They had made quite a name for themselves already. Everyone knew who they were and what their abilities were. It would be a fight worth watching and one that would be talked about for a long time if it were to go down. The room practically sang with the anticipation of the combined mass. All though it thread the voice of the monotone speaker.

"…_The Darkspawn's Sword…"_

He could not help but turn to face the speaker. What he saw was so ancient, it was impossible to tell anything about it but that it was old. The voice lent to the sex of the creature only. It was human. It was swaddled in the robes of a mage. Hair as silvery as his own tumbled about its shoulders and nearly to the floor in a tangled, dirty mess. Dark eyes, as black as sin, stared _into_ him.

"…but it doesn't matter now, since I killed him," Fenris said, turning away from the ancient human. "What will it be, Mage? Will you grovel before me for Varric's merciful handout, or give me the coat that I rightfully own?"

Anders stood, and the room drew a collective and extremely nervous breath. The blue light crackling around his fingertips, a trick he had been playing at all night for the amusement of the tavern girls, increased in luminous brightness.

Those hands moved to the dark lapels of the coat and drew them apart to show the big golden rings that held the thing together. He undid each ring, the blue light growing bright and more ominous moment for moment. He slid out of the coat, and handed it across the table.

The room breathed. Varric's sigh of relief was extremely audible. Most, likely missed the line of blue lightning that danced across the golden lenses of the mage's eyes. Such wicked coloring, as momentary as it was, could denote nothing but rage. Fenris smirked in deep satisfaction, snatched the coat from Anders and walked out of The Hanged Man and into the warmth and darkness of the Kirkwall night. The coat weighed heavily in his arms, as finely crafted as anything nobility would wear. The arrogance of the penniless mage in owning such an article of clothing was astounding, and he seriously considered cutting the thing up for rags.

* * *

**A**nders practiced control. He'd had to ever since he'd allowed the spirit of Justice to live within his flesh. He tamed rage, he controlled it, and, in doing so, he made sure that no one got hurt by the powers he naturally possessed. But it was hard. So very hard. And Fenris had set him off with casual grace of someone lighting a lamp so that the fire burned hot and long. He was angry. And he wanted his damn coat.

Fine things were not for Circle mages. Your background was stripped away. Your possession were only the common things that the Circle allowed. His taste for finery had come from having nothing for as long as he could remember—from never being _allowed_ to have anything. It was as much a rebellion for him as any of his myriad escapes from the Circle tower.

He felt Varric lay a consoling hand on his shoulder. "The elf was in a bad mood. We can, perhaps, buy your coat back tomorrow. I know you're naked without it."

Anders shook the hand off. He was not in the mood for pity—no matter how good-natured Varric thought he was being.

"Have a drink," the dwarf suggested, undaunted. "Even Justice should have a little mercy on you tonight."

"I don't want a drink," Anders said, and while, usually, that was the furthest thing from the truth since he'd gained the spirit that shared his flesh with him, tonight it was true. "I want my coat back."

He started for the door before he really considered it, and was out in the night with the sound of the dwarf's voice calling him back. He felt out of control in way that rarely happened to him. This was not Justice's righteous indignation that he was dealing with, it was his own.

Ghostly spires and gleaming towers rose to meet the shadowy darkness of midnight. The streets of Lowtown were silent, but peopled. Moving between the low, shoddy buildings, in byways and alleyways, furtive figures darted going about the business that was best done after dark. A few brave prostitutes not lovely enough to work in Hightown's Blooming Rose braved the dangerous streets plying their wares in sing-song whisper.

Anders strode the length of a dim alley, one of many labyrinthine winding ways toward his destination—Hightown. He did not fear the lurkers in the darkness. He had been one of these desperate creatures far too long for that. An apostate mage was as much a shadow creature as any of the would-be murders and thieves he passed along the way. The well-lit streets were far more dangerous for one such as him. Templars and guards roamed them, and, although he wasn't particularly hunted in Kirkwall and had managed to carve out something of a life here, he didn't _invite_ trouble either.

He moved past a small, shadowy group of men standing in a corner filled with stygian darkness. He watched as their gazes fell on him in malevolent appraisal. One moved from the main group, and Anders could see a pair of evil eyes glinting behind the mask he wore to hide his features from his prey. He watched as one of the man's companions reached out and drew him back into the shadows, the word 'apostate' falling from his lips like spider's venom.

It gave him a sense of power, their fear. It lent a dark flicker to the anger that was already churning inside him. He had no definitive plan as he crossed the twisted streets of Lowtown and moved into the well-lit and finely paved streets of Hightown. This was a more dangerous world for one such as him. Templars didn't patrol the streets of Hightown, but they were stationed in this lofty, better, part of the city. The guards that patrolled this part of Kirkwall were more prone to be about the seriousness of their jobs. The wealthy always afforded more protection and consideration from law enforcement, and Anders was someone that the wealthy would consider very dangerous.

The wind blew, and while it was warm, it caused the fine silk of his shirt to graze his flesh, and he felt…cold…without the coat. The chill too added to his anger, stoking the fires of what was quickly becoming –step for step—an inferno of rage. He tolerated Fenris and the elf tolerated him. They had been on several adventures together, and Fenris never failed to get on Anders nerves. The elf had a quiet, but blunt, and cruel way of speaking that easily got under the skin and…prickled. Anders hid his annoyance at Fenris' jabs in the same way he hid his annoyance at a world that had crafted him into an evil arch-villain on the day he was born.

_Abominations_, the elf said of all mages, and he spared Anders nothing in his hatred. Anders, in turn, never failed to remind Fenris that they shared a familiarity of unjust servitude. But the elf failed to see it. Somehow, Anders deserved to have his freedoms stripped away, while the elf perpetually whined about the injustices done by evil mages to innocent humans and elves. He could not seem to see that cruelty ran in a vicious circle and whomever had the power in any given situation had the opportunity to be the cruel oppressor whether they be human, elf, or mage.

Anders pretended that it didn't bother him, but it did. And tonight, he had enough of it. There would be a reckoning between them, brought about by his most precious cold. The wind blew, the phantom chill fanned the flames of his anger and indignation funeral pyre high.

He made it to the elf's door without incident. The huge manor, once beautiful, was a ghost of its former self. Fenris did nothing the curb the decay of the place. The flowers that stood in the ancient pots off the high balcony were long dead. The wrought iron gates that framed the windows were rusted. Anders frowned in distasted, and entered the large house without bothering to knock. Fenris never locked the door, like he was just daring someone to come inside and kill him—put him out of his perpetual, self-imposed misery.

_Tonight_, Anders thought darkly, _might just be his lucky night_.

The inside of the house was worse than the outside. It looked for all the world like an explosion had taken place within. Debris was strewn everywhere. Books lay scattered about. Anders frown deepened. He couldn't even imagine having something so fine as this house and leaving it in this kind of disarray. He understood that there was a darkness about the house for the elf though, and, although he didn't know exactly what that darkness was, he did understand that had roots servitude. _But then, why stay here_, was the question that rang loud in his mind as he moved through the great room that would lead to a smaller one, where the golden glow of a fireplace shimmered behind a half opened door. _Why not leave this macabre oppression behind and start out fresh? _He had done so nearly a dozen times now, and, while they always dragged him back, he never gave in to the darkness of his would-be Masters in the way the elf so obviously had.

He became aware, just as his hand came to rest upon the door and push it open, of the distinct smell of smoke. He shoved the door the rest of the way open, and soundlessly. The room consisted mostly of a large, ornate table, with various bottles of liquor scattered across it. There were a few papers, and a book. There were several chairs. Expensive drapes hung from large windows that looked out onto the darkness beyond them. The fireplace was the biggest thing in the room. Fenris was standing before it, cursing in soft, alien, Elven, and cutting up Anders coat into big chunks which he was feeding, piece by piece, to the hungry mouth of the fire.

Anders didn't snap often. Usually, if he snapped it was because the spirit of Justice which resided inside him had seen something unjust. Tonight, however, Justice had nothing to do with the rage that flowed through Anders for seeing the decimation of his precious article of clothing. It was not the loss of the coat itself that pissed him off so much—but the cruel maliciousness behind the act…coming from this particular elf, who never, in all their travels, ever, had a kind word to say to him. It didn't' matter how many darkspawn they killed together, how many hordes of assassins they slaughter in life or death battle, how many triumphs they carved together for their combined causes—Fenris hated him simply for existing…

…just like everyone else…

…and frankly…

…he was tired of it.

He reacted on that weariness—a deep weariness of the soul for being labeled a monster. The cerulean light erupted from him, not just his hands, but, it seemed, every part of him at once. The light sought the unwary elf just as the white haired male became aware that he had a visitor. Fenris was turning when the light hit him. And then he couldn't move anymore. Anders watched the paralysis take the other with a nearly sinister kind of satisfaction. "You should not have done that," he said, and moved across the room to come to stand before the other male. "_Slave_," he whispered in Fenris' ear, his lips grazing the delicate elongated peak.

Anders moved fast, because time was of the essence with this particular spell. He told himself that he didn't have a plan, and, maybe, that was true. But he had liked the clean way the elf's pale hair had smell in the brief interval where his nose had brushed it in his mouth's possession of that ear. He removed what remained of the coat from Fenris' rigid fingers. He tore what was left into strips. When he had several inky strips of cloth, and time was running out by the second, he drew Fenris' stiff arms behind his back and bound the elf's wrists in a series of intricate knots he had learned from an Orlesian whore skilled in sensual rope torture.

When he was satisfied the intricate arrangement of bonds would not break, even with the elf's lyrium induced strength, he added a spell to make the rope like stone, and because the spell was not cast upon a living thing, it would stay that way until the spell was lifted. Even as he ended his ministrations, he felt a shudder go through Fenris' body that bespoke of a return of movement. He came to stand before him, looking into big hate-filled green eyes, slid one foot between the elf's legs, and kicked his legs out from under him.

Fenris went down like a stone. What could only be the most terrible of Elven curses exploded from his lips.

"Didn't your Master teach you any manners?" Anders asked. "Did he beat you day and night to get you to obey him?"

"Release me, Mage," Fenris snarled. "Let this be a fair fight-"

But Anders didn't want to fight. What he wanted was answers to his questions. He remembered the clean way the elf smelled even in this filthy house, the heat of the contact of their skin, the scent of the liquor Fenris had been drinking drifted between them, hot and heavy, clouding the rage in those big eyes—lending slight confusion to that hate-filled stare.

That slight confusion was a vulnerability that Anders had never even imagined in this person. Something deep within him—something extremely predatory stirred to life. It was stronger than his rage, and, yet, fueled by it. He was the kind of person that had never missed the fact that Fenris was attractive, beautiful even. The elf had always been worse than unobtainable. He had been the enemy. Though they fought together, and, upon several occasions, nearly died together—Fenris had always been a hardened foe. But…that look…the inebriated, half-confusion that lay beyond that stare of hatred. There was something so compelling in it.

"Maybe he didn't beat you, after all," Anders said thoughtfully. The blue light—a sex toy for easily impressionable conquests—crackled again at his fingertips. He knelt over the other male, drawn to the pleasant scent of him, the whisper memory of the delicious taste of the other's flesh.

Fenris was struggling in his bonds like an animal in a very small cage. The tattoos that graced his flesh glowed faintly, but, with the onrush of what had to be rage, they were glowing brighter and brighter by the moment—a definite sign of danger. Anders ignored it. Though he was well-aware of Fenris' pleasure in ripping the still-beating hearts out of his opponents chests, he had watched this person long enough to know the limitations of his abilities and to adjust for them.

Anders wasn't stupid. He had never underestimated an opponent in his life. He had assessed Fenris in a casual way that had simply come by association. He had used that knowledge to bind him, and he knew the bonds would hold long enough…

…long enough…

…for _vengeance_…

While Anders didn't believe in slavery of any sort, he knew a slave when he saw one. He found himself leaning in closer, so that he could smell the enraged exhalations of the other male's vile curses. The scent of the liquor on his breath was an intoxication.

"I will kill you," Fenris promised. "I will take your heart and eat it-!"

Anders drew pulsating blue fingers across the elf's high cheekbone. In that touch he sent volts of lightning coursing through the other. Fenris' body jerked as he absorbed the pain. His teeth clench on a howl of agony which he refused to actually utter.

"First of all, that's just nasty. And secondly, most importantly, "Shut…up," Anders said, softly, but firmly.

He did not allow the pain to go on overlong. When he drew his fingers away, green eyes were locked on his. Had looks truly been able to kill, he would have been torn to pieces by the intensity of that stare. Fenris was breathing hard, and Anders could feel every hitching, pain-wracked, raging, breath. It was like riding a volatile sea—the motion of the body trapped underneath him. The lyrium glowed, the intricate pattern a symphony of physical beauty that ended where clothing began. He could not see enough of it. And…he wanted to.

Rage had become intertwined with desire, quickly, absolutely, and, while he recognized that it had happened, he was powerless to stop the kind of vengeance that he wanted to extract from this person. He was too angry. He'd been hurt too many times by the mindless kind of hatred that Fenris so often expressed, and, his dick, while his mind had been sorting it all, was a hard, throbbing thing that he wasn't even _thinking_ about denying.

His hand tangled in thick waves of silver hair and he pulled tight and hard. Simultaneously, he lowered his mouth to the sexy lips panting beneath his own.

"You will kill me," he breathed across that mouth. His teeth gathered Fenris's bottom lip and he bit it hard enough to draw a startled gasp from the other. You will eat my heart," he said around that captured bit of flesh. His eyes caught and held startled green. "Maybe you're worth dying for, slave. Ever think of that?"

* * *

**F**enris felt the full length of the despicable mage on top of him. After killing Danrius, he'd never thought he'd want to harm anyone that badly again, but he wanted to kill Anders now. Fenris had spent too long being defenseless. He did not appreciate a return to that state. The pain, so easily wielded from the mage's fingertips, he could tolerate. He was used to pain. The feel of the mage's lips on his, however, was intolerable. _What is this moron thinking_, he wondered, as his eyes widened with the feel of flesh-on-flesh. He did not flinch as he was bitten, but took that pain as well.

"Don't," the word slid from his mouth and there was a desperation to the utterance that would have been shameful to him if it wasn't so very real. He did not like to be touched. He did not like to be kissed and he, particularly, didn't like to be kiss by mages. "Get off of me!"

Those words were a roaring demand, and he increased the intensity of his struggles against his bonds with each syllable of the utterance. He was a writhing frenzy of motion underneath the other male, desperate to be free again. The alcohol raging through his system made it all seem so very surreal—like a bad dream in which he had been returned to slavery. There was a wickedness to the golden gaze that studied him now, the amber amplified by the firelight. He found himself drowning in that sweltering sea of molten gold.

"Anders-" he began.

"So you _can_ speak my name_, little wolf_."

He had not been called that in a long time—since Tevinter. It surprised him that Anders knew what his name meant, and it pissed him off. He just wanted to be left alone to pass out, wake up in the morning and plot revenge for this insult and humiliation. He might have gone too far cutting up and burning this bastard mages' coat, but it had _only_ been a coat and one he had won fairly. Rage roiled through him in a sinuous wave that said it would be extremely satisfying to _bite_ that smirk off Anders face. He didn't like the way those golden eyes studied him like he was, quite suddenly, the most interesting thing in the world…or a sandwich and Anders was a starving man.

The blond mage sat up suddenly, and Fenris relished the return of some space between them. That is, until the mage started fumbling with his clothing. Pale fingers slid Fenris' shirt up, and golden eyes studied the flesh beneath like there was going to be a test on the patterns and swirls in the lyrium etched into his skin. Anders jerked the shirt up higher, and when Fenris struggled against it, he used the grip in pale hair to snatch his head from one side to the other—an explosion of relatively mundane pain, but pain, nonetheless.

Fingers traced the pattern of the tattoos in bold, intimate caress. The lyrium responded to the touch with hot pain stroke for stroke. Fenris gasped against the intimate exploration of his flesh. The memory of getting the tattoos exploded in his head in white-hot pain. His cock responded in bizarre, helpless, fashion inspired by the pain. To hurt made him horny. Danarius had made sure that he had been crafted that way long, long ago.

A certain measure of shame flooded him for the sheer helplessness of his own excitement. The shame increased ten-fold because the mage chuckled. The sound was dark and knowing.

"No," Anders said with some surety, fingers hooking in the side of Fenris' leggings at the hips and drawing the material damningly down. "He didn't have to beat you _all_ the time."

Blunt nails grazed the sides of Fenris' hips as the leggings came downs—scraping against the lyrium marks, and sending tiny tendrils of sweet pain cavorting all over his skin. He bit his lips to stifle the conflicted cries that threatened to pour out of him as the article of clothing was removed and discarded.

One of the mage's hands slid around the hard length of his engorged cock possessively, covering the lyrium swirls that were etched in the flesh all the way to the tip. He couldn't quite stifle the responsive cry that came with that possessive touch. The fist that held him tightened, the grip hard enough to cut of the circulation.

"_Ahhhhhhhh_-!" The cry was cut off by a further tightening of the grip. Golden eyes watched him, even as golden head lowered to his throbbing erection, and a wicked tongue lolled from perfectly sculpted lips to swirl around the swollen head. The scrape of teeth followed, the administration of the pain quite deliberate as he was slowly sucked into that mouth.

_No_, Fenris thought, but his hips bucked up off the floor anyway, seeking more warmth and suction. It had been a very long time since he'd been touched in this kind of intimate way. His body longed for it—even though his mind was screaming out against it. The more he was sucked into the heat of the mouth, the softer those mind screams became, until he couldn't even hear them anymore underneath the sound of his own panting breaths.

He felt the insistent scrape on nails at his thighs, a nudging apart that he fought to deny. Teeth clamped down on the head of his cock. That blond head shook, a savage administering of a definite threat. He fought to relax a little with the knowledge that this _thing_ that Anders had suddenly become might very well bite him in this extremely vulnerable place.

Those fingers took up their deliberate motion again, sliding up his thighs to the crack of his ass, and teasing that place in rough strokes. The fist on his cock matched the rhythm with perfect timing. His ass left the floor again and again caught up in the beat of the rough-sex-music. A moment later and fingers delved inside him, one sliding across his anus in a way that caused that flesh to spasm hard as the lyrium—etched even in that most intimate of places—reacted.

"Stop this," he hissed, there was rage in the demand. And _desperation_.

The mouth around his cock was trying to suck out his soul, greedy gulp for gulp. If the mage heard him, he gave no indication. The finger at his anus worked to force its way inside him in slow, deliberate strokes from a masterful hand that knew _exactly_ what it was doing. The general good-natured, abomination of a mage, was not so good natured now—and he was skilled at this. Trained, it seemed, as finely and completely as Fenris had been. He knew what to touch and just how hard to suck, and the elf though he was going to go mad if it didn't stop. It was too much. To unexpected. And he had no say in the matter at all.

"Maker curse you, mage, for the foul and filthy abomination that you are! I'll hang your head from the Chantry like a festival bauble! I'll-!"

That finger had worked its way deep inside it, and therein, struck the thing that stole his breath so completely that his lungs ached, suddenly, for air. A tidal wave of pleasure swept over him so hard that it shut his eyes and clenched his teeth hard enough to crack them.

"You are so obviously a wretched little slave," Anders said, softly against the flesh of his dick, the cool breath adding an ache to the throbbing flesh. "Why get angry when someone treats you like one…?"

That finger pulled out of him, and plunged in again to hit that spot.

"…When they give you what you _need_?"

A hatred roiled in Fenris that was familiar, but it was no less familiar than the raging desire that accompanied it. A second finger joined the first in rough-gentle penetration. Each stroke drove harder. Each stroke hit that heated 'home' that made him weak, made him forget that he needed to fight this with every fiber of his being. _This was a mage. This was a mage. Another mage._

He groaned the moment those fingers left him, eyes he wasn't even aware that he closed, slid open as hands came down on his hips and drew him forward. The mage laid down on top of him, hip to hip, and forced his legs wider with his knees. He stared up into golden eyes that were poised just above his. He felt the hardness of the others dick as it pressed the crack of his ass and slid against the heated bud of his anus.

"I'll kill you tomorrow," he panted as he felt the heated pressure of that blunt head as it sought to invade him.

Anders studied him for a moment, and whispered, "Worth it" in the second before his mouth came down on him. Simultaneously, the mage thrust hard and deep into him. The pain was phenomenal, and he cried out into the mouth of his captor.


End file.
